Unnatural Magick
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: *AU* Born a real wizard, Harry infiltrates false covens & exposes their leaders as charlatans. Hired by the Malfoys after their son's death, he must prove coven leader Tom Riddle is a fake. Yet, the more Harry learns about Riddle & his coven—and Hermione, the girl Riddle guards so closely—the more he realizes he's finally taken a job that may be the death of him. MATURE CONTENT
1. Preconceptions

**Author's Notes: **I would like my readers to understand, I am primarily a Dramione-shipper. That has not changed. This fic is written as a gift to my friend and critique partner, krystalMage. She loves my portrayals of Harry & Hermione, as well as their rapport, and thus has been dying for me to write a fic where "Harry gets the girl, and that girl must be Hermione." **I adore Harmione, in context of the series canon, but I am still a Dramione shipper; my Dramione fics will continue as planned.**

**Draco _may_ make appearances in this story, via dreams or flashbacks.**

**I normally write longer chapters than this, I apologize for the meager length.**

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***THIS IS AN AU FICTION.**

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**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or any related characters, and make no money from this work.**  


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**My other current** ___**HP**_ **Fanfictions**:

___A Night Unfettered_ (Dramione [One-Shot, Lemon; on AFF. net, Ao3 & dA])

_Distractions_ (Dramione/Harmione/Hints of Drarry [PwP; _only _on AFF. net])

___Lessons in Hedonism_ (Draco/Hermione/Blaise [PwP; _only_ on AFF. net])

___Nights at Malfoy Manor_ (Dramione/Bits of Lumione/Hints of Harmione)

___The Scavengers _([AU] Dramione)

___Silver Blood_ ([DARK FIC] Dramione/Harmione)

___Teach Me_(Dramione/Scormione [18 yr. old Scorpius])

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**Chapter One**

Preconceptions

Harry's shoulders slumped as the car pulled through an enormous, wrought-iron gate, and up a winding drive. He'd just finished a job, the last thing he'd wanted was to jump into another so soon, but _this_ case involved a death . . . he couldn't ignore the pleas of a grieving family.

That, and his new clients—well, potential new clients—were so very insistent upon meeting they even sent a car and driver to fetch him.

And he knew the look he would receive the moment they met. There would be hesitation, they would take in his appearance—unruly, dark hair, wide green eyes behind wire-rim glasses he'd broken so often he didn't bother to do more than patch them up with tape, his lanky frame which made even the most well-fitting attire hang a bit loose—and assume he wasn't the person they were expecting. They'd try, politely, to send him away, insisting they needed someone older, someone with more experience. They always did.

The car pulled to a stop and almost immediately, his door was opened for him. "Mr. Potter?"

Harry nodded, stepping from the vehicle and smoothing his clothes. He was a very casual person, by nature—khaki trousers and a dark turtleneck, just as he wore now, were as formal as he got—and the extravagance of the estate before him made him feel dramatically underdressed.

Double doors of polished oak yawned open before him, and the butler who'd greeted him swept a white-gloved hand toward the foyer. Nodding again, Harry kept his discomfort in check as he climbed the short flight of steps and entered the house.

The interior doors stood open as well, and he wandered further inside.

"Mr. Potter?" An airy, female voice said, giving him a start, and Harry spun before he had a chance to really take in his environment.

The woman was tall, and expectedly elegant, with long platinum hair and enormous dark eyes. He thought he could make out puffy circles beneath a carefully-applied layer of cosmetics. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she had been crying barely ten minutes ago.

"Mrs. Malfoy?"

She offered a wan smile and nodded, "Narcissa, please." Forcing a gulp down her throat, she spoke again. "Thank you for agreeing to meet us. Please, follow me."

Harry kept his gaze trained on the lady of the house as he strolled across the floor behind her. He charged a flat rate, but any further reminder of just how staggeringly wealthy the Malfoys were might tempt him to change his policy.

"He's here," she said softly as they entered the sitting room.

Harry walked further into the room as she stepped away to fetch something from a nearby cabinet. He followed the dismissive wave of her hand with his gaze, nearly giving another start when he saw the man watching him silently from an armchair by the fireplace.

Lucius Malfoy's hair was pale like his wife's, but more silver than blonde, and grey eyes met Harry's unflinchingly. His gaze didn't waver, didn't wander to scrutinize Harry, in full.

"Mr. Potter," he said, his quiet tone somehow resonating through the room. "Please, join me, won't you?" He gestured to a seat across from him.

Brow furrowing, Harry could feel his face pull into a wary expression as he complied.

"Something wrong, Mr. Potter?"

"No, no," Harry cleared his throat awkwardly as he shifted on the seat cushion. "I'm sorry, I'm just more accustomed to no one believing I'm the person they're expecting."

Lucius rolled his eyes, giving a minute shake of his head as his wife hurried back over to them, holding a folder out to Harry. "It is my experience that when one wastes their time judging a book by its cover, they miss the opportunity to see what is really happening."

The man's face hardened into a scowl as he watched Harry open the folder in his lap. "One lesson my son never learned," he said thickly.

"Lucius, don't," Narcissa murmured as she moved to stand behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Harry flipped through the folder's contents. Pictures of a young man—his own age, if he was judging right—who strongly resembled Lucius. A handful of letters, the dates of the correspondences lapsed further and further; the first letters arriving within weeks of each other, than months. A full year passed between the final two.

Names were blotted out in places, like a redacted government file. He could only assume the Malfoys did it to protect their son's memory. Or, perhaps, to protect themselves from something.

The tone of the letters changed over time, alarmingly so. The first several were excited, happy, detailed accounts of his new life. By the last letter, though, those accounts had thinned to a few sentences, their tone became dark, vaguely depressing. The rare exceptions were the references to a girl he'd befriended—that original happy tone returned in those words.

Frowning, Harry lifted one picture from the rest. The Malfoy's son stood beside a girl with wild brown hair, and wide chestnut eyes. They looked happy in a way that hurt, given what had become of the young man.

He held up the image, pointing out the girl for the Malfoys. "This is the girl he mentions in the letters? Hermione?" Hers was one of the few names not blotted out.

Narcissa nodded, glancing away—not that Harry was surprised by her reaction, she probably couldn't handle seeing such pictures of her son, under the circumstances.

"Yes," Lucius said, his voice low.

Harry's eyebrows inched up behind his glasses as he again looked at the picture. "Do you think she was involved in your son's death?"

"No," Lucius reached out, taking the file from Harry and fishing out one letter in particular. "But we think she is the most likely to know what happened. Draco said that she was special to the coven leader."

"You realize this is a little out of my domain. When I infiltrate a coven, it's to expose a charlatan, rehabilitate brainwashed runaways so they can return to their families. But your son was what, twenty? That's hardly a runway. And if it's a _genuine_ coven, I don't know what you think I can do."

"We've tried sending regular human investigators before, but they don't come back," Narcissa whispered, clutching lightly at her throat. "They send us correspondence, they confirm that they can't find anyone who'll speak a word against the leader, and then they decide to _stay_ there." She swallowed loudly, shaking her head. "We don't hear from them again. That's why we've never been able to prove Draco was murdered."

Lucius nodded, his expression cold and distant. "That's _why_ we need your help. You are the only natural wizard who's been willing to hear us out."

Harry's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Is that why you have yet to tell me the coven leader's name? Why you blacked out portions of your son's letters? You were afraid that if I knew, I'd refuse, as well?"

Smirking mirthlessly, Lucius nodded again. "Of course, you are correct. You are rumored to have never turned down a case, we hoped you would accept the task, regardless. Perhaps that was foolish of us. The coven leader's name is Tom Riddle."

Rather than his face paling, as the Malfoys expected, the young man simply looked at them, his eyebrows drawing together. "You want me to infiltrate the Death Eaters?"

Narcissa's hand gripped her husband's shoulder tightly and Lucius reached up, patting her fingers gently in response. "I may not be a witch," she said, her voice so soft Harry barely heard her, "but I know what my instincts tell me. And _that_ is that Tom Riddle is no true wizard. That man killed our child, and as long as he has people believing him and protecting him, we will _never_ have peace. Our son deserves justice."

Her eyes locked on Harry's and her voice gained strength as she asked, "Will you help us?"

Once more, Harry looked to the picture in his hand. The girl with their son Draco—Hermione, or whatever her name was—probably had a family somewhere; people who loved and missed her. Riddle's other followers were the same, if this was true. Lives and families left behind.

If Narcissa Malfoy's instincts were right, then the Death Eaters were just another false coven. False covens brought a harsh backlash on real witches and wizards, the world over.

_If_ Narcissa Malfoy was right . . . .

And Harry believed she was. "Yes," he said softly, looking up from the picture to meet Lucius' gaze, and then Narcissa's. "Yes, I'll help you."


	2. Dark Hints

**Please Note****: For the purpose of aesthetics, in this fic, Tom Riddle most closely resembles the actor who portrayed him in the **_**Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets**_** film. Yeah, you know who I'm talking about, the handsome one.**

**As the chapter title implies, the story is taking a turn fairly early ;)**

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**My other **_**HP**_ **Fanfictions****:**

_A Night Unfettered_ (Dramione [One-Shot, Lemon])

_Distractions_ (Dramione/Harmione/Hints of Drarry [PwP; _only _on AFF. net])

_Lessons in Hedonism_ (Draco-Hermione-Blaise [PwP; _only_ on AFF. net])

_Nights at Malfoy Manor _(Dramione/Bits of Lumione/Hints of Harmione)

_The Scavengers _([AU] Dramione)

_Silver Blood_ ([DARK FIC] Dramione/Harmione)

_Teach Me _(Dramione/Scormione [18 yr. old Scorpius])

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**Chapter Two**

Dark Hints

Sirius Black's blue-grey eyes rolled as Harry puttered about the storeroom. The young man had only just returned, and now he was stuffing a fresh set of clothes into his truck to leave again.

To investigate the Death Eaters, of all asinine ideas, in the world.

He didn't make any motion that indicated his awareness, yet he felt it the moment Remus stepped into the room.

"Tell your son he's a moron," Sirius said tiredly, setting his jaw.

Remus sighed, stuffing his fists into the pockets of his trousers as he leaned against the doorjamb and shrugged. "He's _your_ son when he gets fool notions in his head, you tell him."

"I tried, but he's not listening."

"I _can_ hear you, you know," Harry said, though he didn't turn to look at them, propping his fists on his hips as he stared into the trunk, thinking of anything he might have missed.

"We never suggested you can't _hear_ us." Remus sighed, pushing off from the wall to step further inside. "We stated outright that you don't _listen._"

"And that he's a moron," Sirius chimed, sitting up straighter and folding his arms across his chest.

Remus nodded, his eyes rolling briefly. "And that you're a moron."

Harry's shoulders slumped. "Riddle _might_ be a murderer. Look," he turned to face his adoptive parents, "if I find nothing—if this Draco's death was an accident, and Riddle is a genuine wizard—then I'll just come back. But neither of you would have ignored this when you were in the field, so don't expect me to!"

Sirius drew a breath and forced it out through his nostrils. "You're right, but you're forgetting my cousin left us—walked away from her family—to join the Death Eaters. Her brain hasn't been right since. You've read your Aunt Bella's letter . . . gone nuttier than a fruitcake, that woman."

"Exactly. And there are more people like her there. People I will be returning to their families, if the Malfoys are right."

"Why do I feel like he gives us this speech every time we caution him about a case?" Remus said as he strolled to the table by Harry and flipped open the file folder.

An eyebrow arched high on Sirius' forehead. "Because he does give us this speech every time we caution him about a case."

"Makes me wonder who he's trying to convince, us or himself." Remus tapped a finger against his lips, curious as he continued, "Do you think Bellatrix will recognize him?"

"Not sure . . . It has been a fair few years—and an ungodly amount of sorely needed psychological evaluations she _hasn't_ had—since she's seen him. And if she does, that could work to his advantage. She might tell him things no one else will."

Remus smirked. "Provided she isn't dribbling into a drool cup off in a corner."

"Well, there is that," Sirius responded, shrugging.

Harry shook his head, his expression souring as he turned back to his packing.

"Hullo, hullo," Remus said with a chuckle, lifting a photograph from the folder's contents. "I'm certain your decision has nothing to do with _this_."

By the time Harry turned to see what Remus was doing, the shape-shifting wizard was back across the room, showing the image to Sirius. Sirius' brows shot up as he took the picture from his husband's fingers for a better look.

Harry stomped over, snatching the photograph from his father's hand.

"She is rather cute, son. I approve," Sirius winked. "The young man's not bad, either."

"Yes, fine, they're both pretty, but I'd like to remind you that young man is _dead_. My decision has nothing to do with _her_."

His fathers stared at him in silence.

Green eyes rolling behind his glasses, Harry's cheeks tinted faintly with red. "All right, maybe it's got _a little_ to do with the girl, but if Riddle did murder the Malfoy's son, then she, and Aunt Bella, and everyone else there is in danger, too. Isn't that enough?"

Remus and Sirius exchanged a glance. "All right," Remus said, holding up his hands. "You're right, enough teasing. C'mon, Sirius, let's allow our moron son to finish packing in peace."

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Hermione shifted beneath the covers, her brow furrowing as she tried to keep her eyes closed. Yet she couldn't . . . holding her eyelids so tightly shut only made her more painfully aware of the tears behind them.

Drawing a deep breath, she let it out as slowly and quietly as she could. Opening her eyes, she pushed back the covers and looked down at herself. There, draped across her breasts and weighing her down, was Tom's arm. Forcing a gulp down her throat—the sound incredibly loud in her ears against the silence—she turned her head to look at him.

His dark curls spilled over his forehead and fell into his eyes, brushing against his long, thick lashes. When he slept, Tom Riddle had the face of an angel, straight out of renaissance masterpiece; perfectly angled cheekbones, and flawless skin under the moonlight streaming through the window. For so long she'd been dazzled by him, just as they all were. But then came the day he . . . .

She forced another gulp, shaking her head as she eased out from beneath his arm and slid off the bed. Snatching up her robe, she slipped it on, belting the garment tightly around her naked form and tiptoed across the floor. Gritting her teeth, Hermione pulled the door open, glancing back at Tom to check that he was still sleeping before she at last ducked out of the bungalow she shared with him.

Descending the short flight of wooden steps, she set her bare feet on the grass of the clearing that contained the majority of the coven's housing and facilities. The moment her skin met the soft, damp blades, she felt a little better; found it easier to breath.

Hermione had been dreaming of Draco again. Biting her lip, she raised her hands to cover her face for a moment, trying to collect herself. Anyone might see her out here, and she couldn't let them know how sad she was. Couldn't let anyone know what really happened to him.

Couldn't let them know that it was _no_ accident; that it was all her fault. If only Tom hadn't seen the way she looked at Draco . . . .

She sucked in a shaky breath and forced it out through clenched teeth as she held in a scream of anguish.

Sometimes she thought she could still feel him . . . the touch his fingers against her cheek. The brush of his lips over hers when no one was looking.

The center of her chest squeezed, tight and sharp and she lowered herself to sit on the steps. Would the pain _never _ease?

Nearly as soon as her bottom hit the wood, she bounced back up to stand, her eyes wide and her arms hanging limp at her sides. There was a bizarre tension in the air around her, as though it had weight suddenly. And it ebbed and flowed against her body . . . .

Like the beat of a heart.

Stepping further into the center of the clearing she tipped her head back, lifting her gaze to the sea of stars in the night sky. _Shifting_ was the first thought that came to mind.

"What are you trying to tell me?" she said, so low her voice was barely audible to her own ears.

Closing her eyes, she listened.

She could hear the wind in the trees, whistling and rustling. Yet just under those sounds . . . she could swear there was something. As though the trees, themselves were whispering to her.

"Hermione?"

The girl nearly jumped out of her skin, whirling on a heel to face the bungalow.

In the open door, utterly shameless, Tom stood, his dark eyes on her. He never cared which of his followers saw him unclothed—he knew well what he looked like.

"Sorry," she forced the word, her hands behind her back as she dug her nails into her palms to keep herself thinking clearly. "I couldn't—couldn't sleep."

"Oh?" Smiling, he put out a hand to her and tipped his head down, his gaze holding hers. "Come back to bed. I'll make sure you're able to rest."

Plastering a smile on her face, Hermione bit back a wave of anger and revulsion. Anger at herself that she'd been powerless to stop him; revulsion that she had no choice at the moment but to let him touch her after what he'd done to Draco.

She'd seen exactly of what Tom Riddle was capable when one of his own disappointed him.

"Certainly," she replied, forcing her legs into motion to bring her back to the foot of the steps.

As he grasped her hand in his and guided her back up through the door, she couldn't help casting a glance over her shoulder. Looking back to the trees once more, she realized what they were telling her, but she wasn't entirely certain what the voices meant by it.

_Change_ was coming.

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Harry breathed a sigh of relief as he was ushered through the gates of the Death Eater's property. The large, beastly looking man who greeted him bellowed, announcing that they had a newcomer in a gruff, booming voice.

He began to wonder if he really should be here. The people he saw milling about the glorified campsite looked healthy . . . and happy. One man—tall, dark haired and dark eyed, and moving with an almost regal posture—stepped from one of the buildings and approached.

Harry's eyebrows shot up over the rim of his glasses. He'd be quite infatuated on the spot, if he swung that way.

A grin spread across the man's full lips as he neared, baring perfect, pearly teeth. "Welcome, I am Tom Riddle, leader of this coven."

Immediately, Harry leapt into his act, eyes widening as he dropped his trunk to fumblingly shake Riddle's proffered hand. "Oh, thank you for greeting me, directly! This is such an honor. I'm—I'm sorry, I'm just excited and . . . terribly, _terribly_ nervous," Harry forced a anxious chuckle as he pulled his hand back to wipe his not-actually-sweaty palm against his shirt. "My name is Harry Evans." He always used his birth mother's maiden name—a posthumous tribute to her covert work.

"Harry, I hope you will find your home, here. We'll need someone to show you around." Clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder, the taller man craned his neck, looking about. "Ah, Blaise!"

A young, dark-skinned man about Harry's age, popped his head up from some task he was overseeing. He beamed at the coven leader as he dusted himself off and crossed the clearing to them.

"Yes, my lord?"

"This is Harry, I'd like you to show him everything. And let Crabbe and Goyle know we need to prepare a welcoming feast for tonight."

Harry was off-put by Riddle's warmth, and the faint dusting of magickal energy he could feel from the man. Not much, but enough that he had to consider the man might indeed be a real wizard. "I don't want to be a bother."

"Nonsense," Riddle boomed jovially, once more clapping his hand against Harry's shoulder—almost knocking the shorter man over. "An excuse for a celebration, a new member of our family, is _never_ a bother. We'll of course have to arrange initiation rites, as well. Sometime during this next moon phase, I think. "

"Oh. Um, okay," Harry said, smiling, wide and deliberate at the perceived sense of belonging, as he reached to grab the handle of his trunk, again.

"Blaise, have you seen Hermione?"

Harry bit into his lip, forcing himself not to react to the mention of her name.

"She's at the lake, Bellatrix and Pansy are seeing to her cleansing."

Riddle's expression hardened so fast, Harry started. Again, Harry refused to react to a familiar name.

Blaise immediately lowered his gaze, shifting his stance as he hefted the other side of Harry's trunk. "I didn't _look_, my lord."

Harry wouldn't mention that the faint blush coloring the other young man's cheeks indicated otherwise.

After a moment, Riddle nodded, his smile returning. "Very well. You may proceed."

As Blaise—who genuinely seemed like a mischievous soul, simply looking for another to guide him—led him around, Harry noted everything that might prove useful to him in the future. He largely glossed over the non-essentials, and being introduced to the others, as he memorized which structures were closest to the tree line, how far into the swath of foliage the gates actually stretched, how far he was taken from the main forest path.

When he was guided to a bungalow, Blaise offhandedly mentioned that Harry would use the spare bed in his quarters, as the young man who used to sleep there had left. He seemed reluctant to say how.

Harry felt a strange zinging in the pit of his stomach and a tingling press on the back of his neck. Frowning, he paused in climbing the steps to look around.

There, in a particular vantage point between the buildings—only allowed to him because he stood right _there, _he realized—he saw her. The girl from the photograph, Hermione.

Only he wasn't anticipating the spectacle.

She leaned back, held up by a tall, slender woman with a mass of dark hair. That might be Sirius' cousin, Bella—after all, that's who Blaise said it was—but it had been so long since Harry had seen her, he couldn't be certain. They weren't in very deep, the water only came up to their knees. Another woman stood before them, younger, perhaps his and Hermione's age, also dark haired.

But what they were doing . . . wasn't like _any_ cleansing Harry had ever witnessed. The woman holding her cupped Hermione's breasts, massaging them softly as she appeared to whisper in her ear.

The young woman in front of her knelt in the water, a cloth in one hand, the other securing Hermione's leg over her shoulder. Harry's cheeks flooded with color as he noticed the way she worked the cloth between Hermione's thighs.

He was about to pull his gaze from them—it felt as though he watched them forever, despite the knowledge that he'd only glimpsed them for a few fleeting seconds—when Hermione turned her head against the shoulder of the woman holding her. She opened her eyes, locking her gaze on Harry's, unerringly.

He swallowed hard. _How did she know?_

Blaise glanced back, blanching as he noted the direction of Harry's attention. "No, no, no!" He grabbed Harry by the shoulders and pulled him inside, slamming the door before going on in a hushed tone, as though he somehow thought he'd be overheard. "I know it's a pretty sight, but you don't want anyone to catch you looking."

Harry's brow furrowed, taking the opportunity that had presented itself. "Understood. Can I ask? Who is that girl? Is she special?"

Blaise made a scoffing sound, nodding as he dragged Harry's trunk to the empty bed and began opening drawers for him. "That's Hermione. And yes. Lord Riddle is grooming her as his consort."

Eyebrows shooting up into his hair, Harry echoed the word. "Consort?"

Blaise glanced back, under the mistaken impression that Harry didn't understand the term. "He's going to take her as his wife."

Harry nodded, forcing a grateful expression. How happy, how at peace Draco and Hermione had appeared in that photograph crossed his mind, then. He pushed away a cold, crawling sensation in the pit of his stomach at the idea that this was probably Draco Malfoy's bed in which he was expected to sleep.

And the numb thought forming that he might be starting to understand why Draco _really_ died.


	3. Revelry, Short-lived

**GENERAL UPDATE ANNOUNCEMENT:**

**Since completing _Nights at Malfoy Manor_ and _The Scavengers_, the remainder of my current, in-progress fics are all 5 chapters or under. Therefore, I will focus on pulling them all up to their 5th chapters (good news readers who follow my AFF-exclusive stories, this means 2 _guaranteed_ updates to _Lessons in Hedonism_ over the next few weeks *wink, wink*), and then attempt to get them on a set rotation, so you guys can have a more accurate schedule of when to expect updates to the fics (or fics) you're following :)**

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**FIC NOTES:**

**I would like to take this opportunity to, again, remind readers that this fic is dark. Unsettling things take place, so if you're concerned you may be upset, or riled, by anything that might happen, please read no further.**

***There is very little conversation, or character interaction in the following chapter.**

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**My other_ HP_** **Fanfictions**:

_A Night Unfettered_ (Dramione [**One-Shot**, Lemon])

_Dame Blanche_ (Dramione/Harmione [possible Drarry])

_Distractions_ (Dramione/Harmione/Drarry [PwP; _only _on AFF. net])

_Hermione Granger and the Chaos Artifact_ (Dramione/Harmione/Drarry)

_Lessons in Hedonism_ (Draco-Hermione-Blaise [PwP; _only_ on AFF. net])

**NEW!** _Mortality_ ([AU] Dramione)

_Nights at Malfoy Manor_ (Dramione) **COMPLETE!**

_The Scavengers _([AU] Dramione) **COMPLETE!**

_Silver Blood_ ([DARK FIC] Dramione/Harmione)

_Teach Me _(Dramione/Scormione [18 yr. old Scorpius])

_Tourniquet_ (Lumione/Dramione)

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**Chapter Three**

Revelry, Short-lived

Night fell faster than Harry expected. Perhaps because when he'd arrived it was already past noon, perhaps because he'd been so distracted by the nuances of getting settled within the coven's members.

Perhaps because he spent so much of the afternoon and evening focusing on not recalling that glimpse he'd caught of Hermione . . . _cleansing._

Of course, simply asking himself how he'd looked up and found the sky above inky and dotted with thousands of stars, yet not noticed the shift in the air of night's approach had him fighting to keep the image at bay.

Before he knew it, a bell chimed, and Blaise shot up. He clamped a hand around Harry's wrist and dragged him from the bungalow. In the center of the clearing was bonfire, long tables had been set, laden with food, wood bowls and matched utensils, but no seats. Some of the coven members sat in a small cluster, playing instruments—mostly fiddles and pan flutes, things that made one think of the forest.

Harry froze in his tracks as he took in the sights and sounds, tugging Blaise to a stop. None of the covens he'd dismantled had been like this. This place felt so . . . _genuine. _But then that flicker of anger in Tom Riddle's face flashed before his mind's eye.

What might become of _him_ if Riddle learned his reason for being there was less than genuine?

Blaise misinterpreted Harry's hesitation. The young man smiled wide, glancing from his new friend to the feast. "It's great, don't you think? Not what you expected, is it?"

"Not what I expected," Harry echoed, nodding as Blaise managed to pull him into motion, once more.

There was a glorious lack of organization in the gathering. People were wandering about, fetching food from the tables in no particular order, sitting in laughing, chattering clusters at random intervals.

He noticed that Bellatrix and that girl Pansy sat together, but . . . after the spectacle in the lake just a handful of hours ago, Harry expected some scandalous, blush-inducing behavior from the two. Yet, they simply giggled and whispered back and forth.

Occasionally, Bella would dart her dark-eyed gaze about as though she heard something no one else did, and Harry would recall his father Sirius' declaration that his long-lost aunt was _nuttier than a fruitcake_. He didn't know which was sadder, the intermittent glimpses of her insanity, or that she was so far removed from his memories that he had a hard time feeling bad about her fluctuating state.

By contrast, everyone else seemed so happy and pleasant, that Bella's scattered moments of silent delirium fell into the background, relatively unnoticed. Perhaps Aunt Bella had always been a little mad, but no one had known because she'd not felt the freedom to allow herself to let the part of her roam, as she clearly felt here.

Blaise continued to drag him through the happy, ambling revelers toward the tables. As they moved, Harry found his gaze drawn to that girl, to Hermione. He clenched his free hand into a fist so tight the edges of his bitten-down nails dug into his palm. The sting forced his focus, letting him drag his attention from her and continue walking.

He didn't know if it was something in the food, or if the drink was stronger than he thought, but after only a short while, Harry'd lost himself. He and Blaise sat with a small group of coven members, chuckling, telling jokes, and discussing absolute nonsense.

And he couldn't remember a time when he'd had more fun, or felt more welcome, anywhere.

A murmur rumbled through the scattered groups, and Harry looked up from his drink—relatively certain he'd dribbled some down his chin, but enjoying himself too much to care—to see Tom Riddle had risen from his place beside his future consort.

Cutting across the clearing on graceful, long-legged strides, the coven leader stepped in front of the bonfire. He spun on a heel to face his people, that wide, dazzling grin on his lips.

Tom held up his hands, and everyone cheered, startling Harry for the briefest second, until he broke into laughter at himself. As Tom dropped his arms, silence fell across the clearing.

"This time next week, we will have initiated a new member into our fold! Harry, please, join me."

Eyes widening, Harry only dimly felt Blaise's slap on his shoulder, urging him to his feet. Standing, Harry realized perhaps he was a little intoxicated as he walked across the clearing to join Tom.

Still smiling that bright, shiny smile, Tom laid gentle hands on Harry's shoulders and turned him to face the coven. "Tonight, we feast, greeting him. And in the coming days, he will be welcomed as brother. Please, treat him well!"

Tom's hands slipped from his shoulders, and a boom sounded behind them, making Harry jump. He spun, finding the bonfire's blaze had risen into the sky, and Tom had his arms raised, once more.

Harry forced a gulp down his throat. He'd not felt the ripple of magic that _should _have accompanied such a trick, yet, he was so close that he would have heard it, had Tom used slight of hand to throw into the flames anything that might stoke it so high.

The coven roared, and laughed, and howled in triumph at the display. Obviously, this was not an uncommon show for Tom Riddle.

Harry turned back slowly, his gaze unerringly finding its way to Hermione's. The girl's brown eyes flashed wide a moment, and she looked away, fast, forcing a small, empty grin onto her lips. He blinked, shaking his head.

He could have sworn that for the briefest second, a terribly sad expression marred her features.

With the distinct impression he was no longer required, he strolled back across the clearing to Blaise's group. When he drew nearer, he realized that where he'd sat was directly across from the girl, yet—as Tom returned her side and sat—not in a position that the coven leader might see if he stole the occasional glance in her direction.

Strange, had he simply not noticed sooner? Had she deliberately sat there, for some reason?

As he lowered himself to sit, Harry felt a stirring in the air. He looked to the trees, out of habit listening to their whispers, even as he sat cross-legged on the ground. _Shifting_, he thought.

Dragging his gaze from the trees, he noticed, Hermione was staring up at them, too. Transfixed. The way she shifted her attention from this tree to that, he realized it not an instance of her merely curious to see why he was looking, but that she'd felt the stirring, that she heard the whispers, as well.

Harry took a moment, looking around the coven. He noticed, Hermione noticed . . . . But no one else did.

Not even coven leader, Tom Riddle.

Tom gave off magickal energy, yet couldn't detect signs from the natural world. Harry could not sense any magic from Hermione, yet she felt the signals as clearly as he had.

Furrowing his brow, Harry took a long swig of his momentarily forgotten drink. Whatever cheerful fugue had befuddled him just a few precious minutes ago was now a distant memory.

There was something going on here, and it did have to do with Hermione. Only, Harry had no idea what that _something_ was, yet.

Hours passed, the feast drew to a close, and everyone retired to their respective quarters. After he thought enough time had passed, Harry reached out, examining the camp. As far as he could sense, most of the coven was sleeping. He didn't like the idea—he had no idea how to explain what he was doing if he was caught—but he had to find out what was _really_ going on between Tom Riddle and Hermione.

Until that moment during the feast, he'd been nearly sold on the idea that Tom Riddle was the real deal. But no true wizard could have ignored nature's cries, as Tom had.

Which still raised the question of how Hermione had when she gave no sign of being a witch.

Closing his eyes, Harry willed silence around himself. Opening them, he climbed out of his cot and crossed the wood floor, exiting the bungalow. As he'd passed Blaise, the young man's snore was muffled in his wake for a few, somewhat humorous, seconds.

Creeping down the steps—despite having wrapped himself in silence, he couldn't help being cautious—Harry circled around the back of the bungalow. He walked along the rear of the row of structures, the crickets and whistling of wind through leaves echoing in his ears as he moved.

The closer he drew to the quarters shared by Hermione and Tom, the more aware he became of his surroundings—of the denseness of the forest, of the weight of the very air pressing on his skin.

* * *

Hermione couldn't say why she'd looked over, toward the compound, when she had earlier that day. Only that she'd . . . felt _something_. The young man watching her had eyes so green, she could tell their color even from the distance, and behind his glasses.

Yet, there was something in his very presence that brought Draco to mind. And so, she'd forced her thoughts from him. Even as she'd sat through the feast, she'd not realized she'd chosen her seating so, until she watched him walking back to his place beside Blaise.

And even then, she'd barely noticed, as she'd felt a bit weak, almost nauseated in the seconds following Tom's display of power. She knew this young man—Harry—had noticed her watching him, but as long as Tom hadn't noticed, then everything was fine.

Sighing quietly, she rolled onto her side, pillowing her head on her crooked arm.

"Hermione?" Tom's voice, quiet and serene, startled her.

"Yes?" She said, though she didn't look at him.

"You're having trouble sleeping again, aren't you?"

She bit her lip, rolling her eyes as she fought a wash of tears. If she lied to him, he'd know. He _always_ seemed to know . . . . "Yes. I'm . . . I'm sorry. Am I keeping you awake?"

"Not precisely." He turned onto his side, slipping an arm beneath the sheet to circle her waist. Pressing his mouth to her shoulder, he whispered, his lips moving against her skin, "I was thinking I should help you rest, again."

Hermione repressed a shudder. She didn't want him touching her, let alone helping her to rest. She didn't want Bella and Pansy cleansing her, either. The act was preferable to laying with Tom, in her eyes, but that it was not of her choosing was what troubled her. He had Bella and Pansy aid her as a means of soothing her _recent fits of anxiety_, as he called them.

He acted as though he didn't know the cause, but she knew better. But, if she didn't pretend to follow along with his feigned ignorance; if she didn't pretend that she'd let the herbs in the food and drink dull her memory . . . .

The truth was she didn't know what he would do, and that was what terrified her.

Tom regarded her silence as consent, slipping his hand upward to cup her breast beneath the sheet as he skimmed the edges of his teeth along her throat. He shifted closer, pressing his bare body to hers and she forced a gulp, squeezing her eyes closed at the feel of him already so hard against her bottom.

* * *

Harry tossed a glance about, ensuring that no one had emerged from their bungalows while he had been so very focused on maintaining his silence. Satisfied that he was alone, he pressed a palm to the back wall of the small building before him.

If he could catch Hermione sleeping, he might be able to dreamspeak to her—to find out whatever information she held about Draco's death without her even being aware of his presence. Potentially without her waking recollection of any such discussion, at all. Not even as a dream, if he was very, _very_ lucky.

Eyes drifting closed, he visualized the wooden texture beneath his skin turning to glass. He imagined opening his eyes, and peering in.

The moment he saw inside the bungalow, he nearly jumped back. This had been a mistake. His timing had been poor . . . any of the dozens of things he could say to himself to make up for such a horrific intrusion.

Tom and Hermione were in there, yes, but they most certainly were not sleeping. However Harry had imagined his first night among the Death Eaters to end, it was not to watch Tom Riddle taking his future bride from behind.

Harry's eyes snapped open, but he had yet to break contact, the image still playing out in his mind. As he pulled his hand away, he caught the oddest glimpse.

_Oh, God, her face . . . ._

Hermione was crying.

For a dreadful moment, Harry thought Tom was forcing himself on her. But . . . it wasn't until Harry had seen her face that he realized all was not as it seemed in there. The way she moved against him, the sounds she made—that Harry now understood she forced herself to make—gave the impression that she was willing.

Yet tears poured down her cheeks. She was putting on a show out of _fear_, Harry realized. A faint, sympathetic thrill of terror set off an icy ripple in the pit of his stomach.

And, as Harry at last broke contact, her expression pulled into one of mild confusion. She looked directly at him. Giving the most minute shake of her head, she bent an arm, pressing her finger to her lips.

Harry backpedaled a few steps, staring at the wall. Blinking hard a few times, he shook his head, getting his bearings. He . . . couldn't have just seen what he thought he saw, could he?

Yet, now that he had a moment to reflect, to focus on things besides the disturbing, dubiously-consented coupling, he had spotted the thinnest trickle of energy. Winding backward, from Hermione to Tom.

He wasn't_ just_ having sex with her, he was using it as a cover to take her energy. The realization settled over him, cold and sudden.

She was a witch! And she probably didn't even know it, herself. Tom must've noticed it somehow, and acted to secure her at his side by claiming her as his consort. To keep his_ battery _close. Harry knew he'd have to find out how Tom had learned to steal magickal energy, but he couldn't trouble himself with thinking on that detail, just now.

Biting his lip, his face twisted in anger. He was going to find out what happened to Draco.

_And _he was going to get that girl as far away from Tom Riddle as he possibly could.


End file.
